


A Gift of Melons

by sunflower1343



Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 03:37:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6888298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower1343/pseuds/sunflower1343
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feilong shares a slice of melon in a brief encounter along the former Silk Road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gift of Melons

**Author's Note:**

> This is just one of those mood things that struck me, this time after I watched a documentary on the Silk Road. I pictured Feilong there and wrote it. From April 2007.
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~

There was dust everywhere. It permeated his clothes, hair, mouth, nose, until he felt a part of the surrounding desert. It was no wonder the food here was so full of spices --strong flavors were needed to overcome the taste of dirt.

Feilong hadn't wanted to make this journey, but the deal was too important to trust to subordinates. There had been a power struggle centered on this small town and the aggressive new leadership here now controlled seventy percent of the Middle Eastern drug and arms traffic headed into East Asia. He needed to solidify relations with them before Asami got there. They were wary of dealing with him though. They'd had nothing good from the Chinese, and weren't about to trust him.

He wrapped the gauze more closely around his head. It helped, some, with the dust. It also protected. After years of oppression, these people hated his race. It was best not to draw attention to his face, for even he couldn't fight off an angry mob. But he soon realized there was no need to.

As he moved through the streets they all stepped aside. They didn't know who he was, but being people who survived by their instincts, they could tell what he was. No one accosted the tall figure who moved through them swathed in robes of black, a frightening mix of grace and death, among them but not a part of them. It was always so for him.

His path took him through the silk market. There were goods from China, Pakistan, Russia. Some particularly fine examples of fabric caught his eye, and he instructed that several bolts be sent to the inn where he resided. He spoke in a flawless Russian dialect, blending in like a native. His guide, a small obsequious man, interrupted and urged him on to his destination. It wouldn't do to be late, he said. 

Feilong eyed the man with distaste. Did no one tell him whom he was guiding? Did he think a mere chieftain took precedence over Liu Feilong? Feilong wanted the contract but he would bow to no one to get it. He purposefully turned away and stepped into another shop overhung with silks. He wasn't interested in any of them, just in teaching a lesson.

Thirty minutes later they left the market, the little man sweating and not merely from the heat. Unfortunately for Feilong, his little plan backfired. By the time he reached the home of the man he'd made the journey to see, the village members, almost all Muslim, were being called to prayer. It was his turn to wait.

He walked around the courtyard, trying to find a place of respite from the heat. Even the house of one so important to this town couldn't escape nature. Yet there was bench near a small tree that was slightly shaded, and, after brushing it clean, he sat and relaxed.

But not for long. He soon felt eyes upon him and froze. His own darted around as his hand slipped under his robe to the gun on his thigh. Then he found the source. There, peeking around the corner, a tiny girl child, mostly covered in robes, mostly large dark eyes. He should have known; all the adults were praying.

They stared at each other with curiosity, the tall exotic man, and to him the small peculiar child. She finally stepped out into the courtyard and approached. It wasn't a straightforward approach, but a casual one, first examining with interest the wall to her left, as if she'd never seen it. Then a step closer, and the same, taking care not to let him see her peeking at him from under long lashes. He played the same game, hiding a smile, supposedly looking everywhere but at her.

But eventually they caught each other, and both had such a look of mock surprise on their faces that the child was startled into giggling. She shyly held out her hand. She held a piece of melon, slightly smudged, with a little bite already taken out of it.

"What is this? Is this for me?" He spoke in Russian, but she didn't understand. He tried several Chinese dialects, but those didn't work either. He pointed from the melon to himself, and she nodded. When he took it, her eyes sadly followed the little bite mark. It was obvious this was a treat, and one she was loath to give up, yet she had done so for her mysterious guest. He pulled one of his knives from an arm sheath, sliced the melon in two, and offered half back to her. A smile lit her eyes, and she climbed onto the bench beside him and began chattering while she ate.

He had no idea what she was saying, but despite that, she was a pleasant companion. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sat in innocent company and been so easily accepted. They finished their melon, he having quietly wiped what dirt he could from it, and much refreshed enjoyed a small bit of the afternoon, she telling him some lively story and he smiling and wondering what it was that transported her to such delights. 

Their rest was soon broken by the return of the adults from the rooftop where they had gone to pray together. He rose, as did she, running toward her relatives, still chattering and laughing. Their gazes, sharp on him, softened as she told her tale. She had shared food, and he had shared in return. There would be no obstructions to this deal.

_Use all weapons at your disposal, Feilong, but use them wisely._ His father had often said that. He hadn't meant to use her. But he'd found that his training as an assassin often brought the very tool he needed to his hand, and he instinctively used it well.

Still, he hated the idea that his memory of this little interlude would be marred by that. It had been perfectly innocent. It was one of the few things in his life that could be labeled such. As he disappeared into the cool recesses of the house, the chieftain now welcoming him as a privileged guest, he made a promise to always remember it that way.

And when she grew older, the child forgot the stranger with whom she'd shared a treat that warm day. But she always enjoyed the gift of melons that each summer brought from the Far East.

 

~end~


End file.
